


We'd fall all over again

by oxiosa



Series: BrArg Week 2017 [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Latin Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, BrArg Week, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 08:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12813825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxiosa/pseuds/oxiosa
Summary: They’ll have to talk about it, sooner or later, but they’re both delaying that dreadful talk, as if ignoring the matter will make it solve itself. What they have might not last forever, but they are mindful and won’t let some words ruin it, so they respect their spaces.





	We'd fall all over again

**Author's Note:**

> Disclamer; the characters used in this work belong to the community Latin Hetalia and their respective creators. More info about them in the following link > www.latin-hetalia.livejournal.com
> 
> Argentina: Martín Hernández.  
> Brazil: Luciano Da Silva.

Martín Hernández is, by any means, no romantic.

He’s also just a 12 year old boy, and like most boys his age, there’s much more important stuff in his mind than _relationships_ and _soulmates_ and _happily-ever-afters_ , so perhaps it'd be safe to assume his lack of interest in romance a matter of age rather than character (as it will turn out in the future, it is indeed a matter of age rather than character, for Martín Hernández _will_ be a hopeless romantic). Nowadays, Martín has no time for romance.

So, while he _should have_ , he pays no mind when a new kid moves to town.

It happens during the mid-term of the year. Luciano comes from Brazil - which should have put Martín on alert, if only he’d cared -, and to say he’s not adapting well would be an understatement. Luciano’s in another class and Martín doesn’t get more than glimpses of him here and there, but judging by what Martín hears around, he doesn’t seem to want to talk with anyone. He sits by his own, quietly scribbling in a notebook as he ignores the world like it’s a personal offense to him. For all that Martín’s seen and heard, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else but here.

Which is fine by Martín, since he doesn’t particularly care about what Luciano does.

_Didn’t_ care, that is, until one morning.

While not romantic, Martín is curious by nature, and can’t help himself when, as he makes his way to the yard as the breaktime bells rings, he hears music quietly echoing through the hallways. He stops dead in his tracks and looks around. He hesitates a moment when his friends laugh and call for him, but finally waves them off and goes after the sound. It comes from an empty classroom - the music classroom -, and when he peeks his head through the half opened door, he sees Luciano sitting on a table by the window, a guitar on his lap and several scribbled papers around him. His fingers dance over the strings playful, nimble, going back and forth as he tries to get the song right, and after a quiet moment, he starts singing quietly to himself.

Martín listens for a moment, doesn’t dare interrupt him; Luciano sings in Portuguese and Martín doesn’t get what he says - and if he had just paid enough attention he might had realised that was _not_ the first time he ever heard those words -, but the sad notes of the guitar and Luciano’s sweet voice settles in his core warmly.

Only when Luciano seems to be done, stops to take a pen to scribble some more on his notes, does Martín talk.

“Lovely song,” he calls.

Luciano’s head shoots up in a startle, and stares at Martín with wide dark eyes like a small child caught stealing cookies from the kitchen’s jar.

“W-What?” he stutters.

“It’s good to see you’re not mute after all,” Martín points out and smirks not quite kindly.

Luciano stares for a moment; it takes him a moment to frown and glare at Martín. He starts gathering his notes quickly, angrily.

“Who says I’m mute?” he snaps back.

His Spanish is not bad, but it still carries a heavy accent. Still, Martín notices, he talks with the fluidity of someone who knows the language, surprisingly enough.

“People wondered,” Martín shrugs.

“Well, people should mind their own business,” Luciano replies, and shoots Martín a pointed accusing glance.

Luciano swings his backpack over his shoulder and put the guitar away. He leaves the room, not before shoving his shoulder against Martín’s on his way out. Martín answers back kindly with a loud rude curse at him.

They don’t become friends until they turn seventeen, and they don’t start dating until their last school year. It’s not entirely serious - kissing under stairs during break time, meeting after class and going to the movies, laying in bed one next to the other staring at the roof and talking - , but it’s enough to leave them both with a broken heart when Martín announces he is moving to Brazil for a season once they graduate.

They don’t meet again until Luciano is the one traveling back to his homeland, and after a week of dancing around each other and a huge fight, they start dating again.

The problem is when things start to get a little more serious between them.

They have not talked about their marks yet. Soulprints are a very delicate, private thing, usually kept out of sight, for there’s some sort of vulnerability on displaying the words that might change your life for the world to see. Luciano has not asked about Martín’s mark, and Martín has not asked back. These three months of dating they have been mindful enough to avoid an unwanted eyeful - it’s a bit of a turn off to be reminded that you might eventually be replaced by someone who says the right words. Luciano keeps his old leather wristband on at all times, and he’s notices Martín tends to keep his shirt on or avoids turning his back on him when he doesn’t. By now, Luciano is fond with most of Martín’s body, so it doesn’t take a genius to get a pretty good guess of where Martín’s mark lays.

They’ll have to talk about it, sooner or later, but they’re both delaying that dreadful talk, as if ignoring the matter will make it solve itself. What they have might not last forever, but they are mindful and won’t let some words ruin it, so they respect their spaces.

That is, after one particularly wild party with tons of alcohol.

As it usually happens when they sleep together, Luciano’s the first to wake up. He stretches and yawns in bed, his limbs a little heavy and his head still a little buzzy from last night, and turns to Martín’s comforting weight at his side. Martín still sleeps, breathing lightly with his back turned to him. Luciano throws an arm over him, cuddles against him, closes his eyes and buries his face between his shoulder blades. He smiles and trails kisses following Martín’s spine. Martín melts back into him, enjoys the attention for half a minute before he tenses up and reaches to the nape of his neck.

“Ah, Luciano, wait-” he calls, but it’s too late.

Luciano doesn’t mean to pry - really, _really_ doesn't -, but it’s hard to avert his gaze from Martín’s mark when it’s the first thing he sees the very moment he opens his eyes.

Neither of them move, as Luciano’s eyes read over and over and _over again_ the 8 words concisely written between Martín’s shoulder blades.

Words, he realise, that are _way too familiar to him_.

Martín doesn’t dare to talk nor move - he barely even _breathes_ -, remains still and quiet as Luciano raises a hand and delicately runs his fingers over the words, almost fearing they might smudge or fade away under his careful touch.

Then, he roughly catches Martín’s shoulder and shoves him to his back into the mattress and straddles to his lap.

“ _Fucking Jesus Christ, Luciano,”_ Martín hisses. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Luciano cups Martín’s face - more like smashes it between his hands - and leans over until their foreheads are touching.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” he demands.

“Yeah,” Martín says. Frowns, but humours him, if a little reluctant. “It was at school.”

“At the music classroom,” Luciano nods.

“You skipped break time,” Martín replies. “You were playing the guitar, singing and…”

Martín trails off as he frowns to himself, squints for a moment, before his eyes go round with understanding.

“Luciano…” he asks quietly. “What were you singing?”

“Do you remember the first thing you said to me?” Luciano demands.

Martín stares at him with round green eyes for a moment.

“I heard a guitar and followed the music to the classroom, and then I saw you,” Martín tries to remember. “You didn’t notice me. You were singing something, and I listened for a while until you were done, and then…”

And then he had startled Luciano, smirking at him from across the room. Luciano remembers singing quietly to himself, finishing the first song he ever composed, being so into his work that he missed what Martín had said as he scrambled to his feet.

“ _Then?_ ” Luciano presses.

Martín blinks up at him.

“Then I said ‘hey, lovely song’...”

Luciano rips his wristband off, offers his hand to him. Martín’s eyes go wide as he reads those same words written on the inside of Luciano’s wrist. Martín stares, before gently trailing the words with his thumb.

When he looks back up, Luciano smiles at him like a madman before he smashes their lips together in a kiss.

And then they burst into laughter. As Luciano presses his forehead against Martín’s, one hand slides below Martín and cradles his back and his fingers absently trace the words tattooed between Martín’s shoulderblades;

_Pois era o destino que nos apaixonaríamos novamente._

**Author's Note:**

> Day 1 of the Brarg Week; Soulmates ☑


End file.
